


The Crimson Thread

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (ಠ‿↼), Backstory, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Eventual Happy Ending, Headcanon, John is Sherlock's heart, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Mess, Johnlock Fluff, Moriarty Is A Dick, Moriarty Made Them Do It, Moriarty's Web, Multi, My theories, Parentlock, Post Mary, Relationship(s), Sherlock Explains, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock is a Good Parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:37:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5641081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>After the dust settles Sherlock explains the tangled web of Moriarty's plan</b>
</p><blockquote>
  <p>“The elegance of Moriarty’s plan was that we always thought we had free choice… we thought we were acting of our own volition… but he understood, <i>because of who we are, what we are made of,</i> when put in any given situation, it was <i>always</i> going to end the same way… Sometimes he let us think we were winning, gave up pawns, cut loose strings, because his game was larger.” He pauses and swallows, looking down a moment, then his eyes flick up and narrow on John. “It was always about burning the <i>heart</i> out of me… It was always about <i>you</i>, John.” Sherlock stops, waiting for John to process the information.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Recently split into two chapters. Johnlockadventcalendar prompt: “Parentlock”_
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> _A little of my personal headcanon of Moriarty’s plans and how Parentlock begins._  
>  **Comments and Kudos are kindly appreciated**

“Are we going to talk about it,” John asks settling back on the couch in the sitting room of 221B.

“I didn’t think you’d want to, John,” Sherlock’s tone is flat, but his words are careful. He doesn’t look up.

“This is about me too… I want - _need_ to understand, Sherlock.” John leans forward.

“I think, perhaps, it’s best-”

“Sherlock.” John cuts him off. His jaw clenches and he looks up at Sherlock, his eyes are stern and unblinking. “Take me through it, Sherlock,” he says slowly and forcefully. 

Sherlock sighs. He rises to his feet and begins to pace.

“It was always an elaborate chess game with Moriarty. Move and countermove. But on a much grander scale than anyone could imagine. Games within games… Moriarty had one advantage over me, he understood people - how they work, how to manipulate them. The spider at the center of a web making a thousand lines dance for one purpose.” He stops and looks at John, his jaw tightening. 

“Ok…” John speaks slowly, his brow furrowing. “For what purpose?” 

“You remember, at the pool, John. What Moriarty said he’d do if I didn’t stop meddling?” John purses his lips and looks away. His heart still beats faster recalling the pool.

“Burn the heart out of you.” John can hear Moriarty’s voice saying the words as if he still stands beside him. The way he twisted the pleasure and pain out of those words still sends a cold chill up John’s spine. He can feel the weight of the bomb vest pressing down on his chest. 

“You see, John, we consider our lives laid out before us as a tangled skein of separate threads and behind us as an intricate tapestry of a thousand moments and seemingly random decisions, but to James Moriarty… it wasn’t that way at all.” John watches Sherlock with interest as he moves across the room. 

“To the right mind even people are a simple equation that, when provided the right factors, produce fairly reliable results… You understand the man, you understand the path of the man’s life, then you can manipulate that path… Long before he stepped out of the shadows, Moriarty was always there; the crimson thread pulling upon the weave of our lives, drawing us together, pulling us ever so subtly along a path of his own design…”

“So… you’re saying Moriarty somehow knew what we would do… even though we didn’t?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock shoots John an appreciative glance. He always seems somewhat surprised and immensely pleased when he can see John is following along. “The elegance of Moriarty’s plan was that we always thought we had free choice… we thought we were acting of our own volition… but he understood, _because of who we are,_ what we are _made of_ , when put in any given situation, it was _always_ going to end the _same way_ … Sometimes he let us think we were winning, gave up pawns, cut loose strings, because his game was larger.” He pauses and swallows, looking down a moment, then his eyes flick up and narrow on John. “It was always about burning the heart out of me… It was always about you, John.” Sherlock stops, waiting for John to process the information. 

John sits back against the couch. He blinks, his eyes widening. “Me?”

Sherlock nods. “Irene Adler… that wasn’t about me… not really.” John’s eyes narrow and he smirks as if he believes Sherlock is trying to fool him.

“How could _she_ be about _me_?”

“Planting the possibility… Hard to kill an idea once it is in the head and he needed you to have a _very specific_ idea…” Sherlock hesitates, steepling his fingers at his mouth a minute, then beginning again at a quicker pace. 

“Prior to Irene Adler it was easy for you to imagine I was absent of that kind of emotion, _incapable_ of feeling love or even attraction. A notion I did well to encourage. My interactions with Irene exposed you to the possibility that I could feel something, sexual or otherwise, for another person. Her attraction to me and my potential exception to it… Biologically speaking people are more attractive when they are seen as desirable by others… the more attractive the love interest the better. Irene; an intelligent, dangerous and highly sexualized woman, there could be no one better to peak the interest of a man like you, John… You naturally began to think about me differently at that time as evident by the fact that you started counting my texts from her and inquiring among acquaintances about my previous relationships. Additionally, at this time the women you dated diverged sharply from your previous expressed preferences of softer features, blonde hair and a stature more akin to your own. Jeanette, tall, dark hair, sharp bone structure…” John’s eyes widen a bit. 

“That was Irene’s purpose in Moriarty’s larger game. Moriarty had to draw you closer to me and change the way you thought about me. The game within that game was all about putting pressure on you to gain feelings beyond friendship for me, then confront you with them, thereby solidifying them… Irene calling you to Battersea… What she made you admit to yourself about attraction beyond your limited understanding of your own sexuality… ” John cleares his throat and drags a hand across his eyes, pushing his fingertips into his temple and massaging a moment.

“So, you’re telling me…” John clears his throat again and wets his lips with a quick flick of his tounge. “Moriarty… wanted me to…” Sherlock sits down on the coffee table in front of John. His voice is softer.

“You _must_ understand, John, you can’t burn the heart out of someone unless they actually have something… they… _love._ ” Sherlock interlaces his fingers tightly as if in doing so he is preventing them from doing something else. 

“Right.” John tucks his chin in and purses his lips. He slided back a little into the couch to relieve the pressure of Sherlock being so close. 

Sherlock stands up again and walks to the fieplace. He runs his fingers over the skull that sits on the mantle and lets his eyes fall on the lucky cat waving listlessly from the shelf.

“That done, Moriarty’s next logical step was my death… Destruction of my reputation was a result, but that was not the purpose of that game… For you, being the man you are, turn the whole world against me and your bond grew even stronger. For me, he knew I didn’t really care about what _everyone_ thought. I cared what _one man_ thought of me. He understood what I would give up for the chance to destroy him… and to keep you safe. I didn’t have to die to _Mycroft_ or _my parents_ or _Molly Hooper_. I had to die to _you_. That was what I had to be willing to sacrifice to take him down. I had to be willing to _burn you._ ”

“So _that_ \- that was a deal you made _with him_?” John’s eyes burn with rage.

“As long as I kept you in the dark, he kept me dancing, feeding more and more of his world into the fire.:

John stands up from the couch and takes a step towards Sherlock, his fists clench at his side. “Burning me? _Me?_ That seemed like a perfectly _Ok thing_ to do?!”

Sherlock watches John with reserve. “It was my deal with the devil. Moriarty could have killed us _at any time_ … he would have, on a whim…The _game_ was what mattered to him, _that_ was all that was keeping us alive… what gave him pleasure, not unlike the cabbie and his two bottles of poisoned pills, was forcing people to make the _impossible choice_ \- it wasn’t enough to kill a person, the pleasure was in _out-thinking them;_ getting the person to kill themselves. He couldn’t just burn the heart out of me. He had to make me choose to _burn it out of myself_.” John stares at Sherlock, his anger apparent.

“It wasn’t an easy choice, John… It wouldn’t have been worth it to Moriarty if it was.”

John looks away. He sits back down on the couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and his head hung. 

“When?”

“What?”

“When did you know I was being manipulated, Sherlock?” He speaks more slowly, his voice straining to contain the rage. “How long did you let it go on?” 

“We all have blindspots, John… I am afraid I was very slow.” Sherlock walks to the window beside the desk.

“You were _here,_ looking out the window, I was at the computer _there_. I shouted at you that Moriarty was manipulating you… It was after Lestrade came to take me into the station. Do you remember?” John thinks a moment. 

“But that was right before…”

“It was too late by then… Moriarty’s plan had played out too far. I only had _one choice_ really.”

Sherlock gives John a moment to process this, then continues.

“I thought I was keeping Moriarty distracted, but it was the _other way round,_ because he’d put another game into play. Whilst I was away Moriarty was pulling you into the arms of your very own _femme fatale._ ”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice contains a warning. This next part is far too fresh.

“Sorry.” Sherlock looks John over. He walks briskly to the kitchen and returns with two glass tumblers and a decanter of brandy. He fills the glasses, leaving the fuller one and the bottle on the coffee table in front of John. He walks to the fireplace with his glass. John’s hand shakes as he takes his glass. He lets the rim rest against his lips a long moment before tipping it back and drinking the entire contents. 


	2. Chapter 2

The decanter bottle clanks against his cup as he pours himself another glass. Sherlock watches with concern. John sits back and sips the second glass more slowly. 

“Moriarty still _‘owed’ me_ a fall. He still had to make me _burn_ some more. He took joy in my pain when I came back to find you - you’d moved on, built a life… _Mary Morstan_. A woman in the stranglehold of some pretty nasty people. And James Moriarty was the man with the _golden key_ , the key that made records _disappear._ He was the only man that could free her and her family.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock.” John shakes his head “You’re saying that _Mary_ was _Moriarty_ too?”

“Yes. Mary was _always_ working for Moriarty. It was part of _his game._ He delighted in watching me see what I’d lost. He’d thought I would make you choose between us… I always had before. And he knew this time you’d choose _her._ And perhaps it would have ended there. He could have killed me then, knowing he’d burned it all… Burned the heart out of me.”

Sherlock looks lost in thought a moment. He takes a small sip from his glass and leaves it on the mantel of the fireplace.

“In Moriarty’s equation, people, what they are made of is the one constant. On the most basic level, people do not change - not in the way that results in drastically different behaviors. So Moriarty didn’t count on me changing… Something changed in me those years away, clawing and scraping and burning my way through the darkness of his world, and it wasn’t in the way one might expect.” Sherlock pauses steepling his fingers and touching them to his lips.

“What?” John takes another long drink. His eyes are starting to look glassy. He’s relaxed back into the couch. Sherlock begins more slowly.

“I realize now that you had nothing to hold on to… You believed I was dead. There was no hope in that. Even in the memories there could only be the sharp sting of loss, but I… I had you, John… to hold on to. In my head… you were beside me… In my Mind Palace you helped me solve the clues, the endless trail of breadcrumbs Moriarty strung before me… When I was bruised and broken and ready to lay down and die, I heard you telling me to get up… it was your warmth and constancy that kept me human. I can’t say I understand people as Moriarty did, but you and I had spent enough time together that I could see you in all of it… hear the joke you might make, or the argument you might lay out for compassion and humanity when my natural inclination was so much colder and unkind… I am embarrassed to say, but over time your presence became so real to me that I heard you without having to go to my Mind Palace. Your voice was a running commentary in my head as I went about the work of destroying Moriarty.”

“So what you’re saying is you made me into some sort of… Jiminy Cricket, a conscious… whispering in your ear?” John looks slightly amused. Sherlock snorts.

“You could say that… I found it a little hard to adjust when I came back.”

“Not too hard, pretty sure _‘cricket John’_ would not have condoned your handling of the whole _bomb carriage_ experience,” John says incredulously. Sherlock smiles and looks down at the floor.

“I know what that seemed like to you, John, but that’s because you assumed, as Moriarty did, that I was the same person as when I left you. If you will remember it again… what did I say to you?

John thought a moment.“You said you didn’t know how to do it.”

“And by ’ _it’_ you assumed I meant-”

“Defuse the bomb.”

“But what I _actually_ meant… what I was actually struggling with, having already switched off the bomb, was my own incompetence at relationships… knowing we were at an impasse. I was either going to keep putting you in the position of making a choice between our life together and your Mary until something broke or… I was going to have to accept that you’d moved on and do the thing _‘cricket John’_ would tell me to do… let you be happy.” 

“You’d saved my life so many times and in so many ways… There you were, still trusting me when I had no right to expect or deserve it. There you were, willing to died along side me for the chance that together we might undo some evil, save some lives… Letting you be happy was the least I could do, John.” John’s mouth is open. He drains the last of his glass and sits it on the table with a loud smack. Sherlock tries not to look at him. 

“I don’t even know what to say to that…” John whispers, shaking his head. His elbows are resting on his knees again. “What do I say to that?” He says quieter, to himself. Sherlock presses on.

“This change in my _modus operandi_ was not anticipated, so Moriarty had to develop another way to lead me down the path of destruction. He had to create pressure again. In came the vilest of businessmen, _Charles Augustus Magnussen._ ”

“Always happy to acquire a valuable asset, Moriarty giving Magnussen Mary’s scent ensured I’d feel the burn of not having protected you properly. Watching your world crumble, you become an asset in Magnussen’s collection, your heart get burned out by a woman who was a false sanctuary from all that you had been put through… And it would be clear that it was because of your connection to me. I had brought that into your life and I would watch you burn… that would be his final victory…”

“But I made another uncharacteristic move, I sacrificed myself for you and Mary. I shot Magnussen knowing where that would lead for me, being sent away - again - this time to my death. He couldn’t have it end that way. Whatever he could do to me then, I would die a good man in your eyes… he knew that was enough for me and so that was not victory for him… I’d unknowingly forced his hand. He had to come out of hiding to keep me in the game.”

“What about you?”

Sherlock looks confused. “Me?”

“Moriarity apparently spent all this time and effort manipulating _me_ , toying with _me-_ ”

“Yes, he would _have to_ , wouldn’t he?

“What?

“By virtue, I am a particularly unlovable man, John.” John gives a short laugh and shakes his head.

“But what about you? He must have been playing with you too - for his plan to work, I mean.” John smirks. It is giving him some measure of comfort to think that Sherlock has been manipulated too. He assumes Sherlock avoids mentioning this because he hates showing his own failings.

“Oh… I thought that was fairly obvious…”

“Nothing’s obvious with you Sherlock,” John’s voice is tinged with anger. 

Sherlock looks stricken. He speaks slowly. “He didn’t have to…” 

“Sorry, what?”

“He didn’t have to make _me_ … care for _you_ , John.” John jerks back so quickly it is as if he had been punched.

“Wh -when?”

“Since the pool.”

“That’s not- that’s not possible.”

“Feelings really aren’t my area, but Moriarty made a good study of us. Long before he stepped out of those shadows he’d delved into our character, studying our every move, insinuating himself into our lives to learn about us from acquaintances. He knew our nature.”

“At the pool, I tried to tell him that I didn’t have a heart, but he already knew - he understood - better than I did really, what I was feeling… Took me awhile to figure out what I was feeling…Took me longer still to be willing to let myself feel it, but… Moriarty didn’t have to do _anything_ to me to make me care for you, John.”

John looks at his empty glass then reaches for the bottle again. Sherlock’s hand closes around it first and he pulls it out of reach. John glares up at him.

“One takes the edge off. Two makes you tipsy. Three and things… get _messy._ ” Sherlock glances at the room at the top of the stairs. John stares at him angrily. He stands up quickly. Sherlock draws back.

“I think it’s about time I have control over my _own decisions,”_ John growls bitterly. His muscles tense and his shoulders pull back. Sherlock knows this means he is ready to fight. 

“John.”

“I’m ticked at you, Sherlock.”

Yes, I got that much…Are you going to punch me, John?“ Sherlock asks cautiously.

“I might.”

“Will it make you feel better."

"It might.”

“Then go ahead.” Sherlock straightens and waits.

John tilts his head as if considering it. Instead he strides over to the fireplace and snatches Sherlock’s still full glass off the mantle. He collapses into his sitting chair holding the glass slightly aloft as if daring Sherlock to try and take it from him.

A soft wail comes from the room at the top of the stairs and both men turn. It grows in volume and intensity. John looks at Sherlock then starts to get up, but Sherlock throws out a hand in his direction, motioning him to stay put. 

“I’ll get her.” Sherlock says softly. He walks to the kitchen and John can hear doors opening and closing. He sits back in his chair letting out a long breath. He places the glass on the table and stares at it. He can hear his friend upstairs now, his voice cooing in a hushed tone as the sound of crying subsides. He traces the rim of the glass with his index finger and tries to sort through everything he has just learned. 

Sherlock re-enters the sitting room carrying a small bundle of pink in his arms. His steps are bouncy as he stares down at the infant and speaks softly in a deep voice. “Not a sleeper either I see, Elizabeth? I can’t blame you. Most things of interest happen at night.” He stands by the fireplace rhythmically rocking between the tips of his toes and his heels and studying her face with interest. John watches this odd new sight for a moment. The tall, thin man, elegant even in his housecoat, seems more relaxed than John can ever recall seeing him. His dark curls fall over his eyes as he leans over the little blue-eyed and pink-skinned baby with her tuft of soft blond hair sticking over the blanket. Sherlock is mirroring her expressions, his features flowing from versions of angst, concern, confusion and interest in sync with hers as if trying to decode her secret language. He stops and smiles faintly at her.

“You’re a clever one, aren’t you,” Sherlock says softly. “Take it all in, Elizabeth. Don’t miss a thing.”

“You’re better with her than I imagined you’d be…” John’s voice sounds choked. He clears his throat and gazes at the fire place.

“Mmmm… Truth be told I have never been around one so small… Little human… _Fascinating_ really.” Little fists close around Sherlock’s house coat. He pulls her forward and inhales a deep breath close to her head.

“She smells better than I expected… you know when she’s not-” both men wrinkle their noses. 

“Right.” John agrees.

Sherlock tucks her in one arm and strokes her head; running his fingers lightly over the soft, downy, blonde hair. 

“Softer too…” he muses. His voice lightens. “Were we all so soft…before life hardened us, before scars and wounds?” 

Blue eyes roll back sleepily with each stroke of Sherlock’s fingers over her head and Sherlock laughs. 

“She has your eyes, John.”

John smiles, nodding. “Yes, I know.” His smile fades into sadness again. “And her mother’s chin.” 

Sherlock touches her nose softly with his index finger. “Yes, well, no one’s perfect, John.” Sherlock says cooly. John laughs. Sherlock glances up at him and smiles. John turns his head and pulls at his lips with his fingers. 

Sherlock begins humming in a deep voice. John hasn’t heard him sing before, but isn’t surprised that his voice is beautiful - the tones he sometimes imbues his speech with were always a clue. _Braham’s lullaby._ John feels the sadness rising in him. Tears burn in his eyes, threatening to overflow. 

“She’s not coming back is she, Sherlock?”

Sherlock pauses his humming. He doesn’t look up from Elizabeth’s face or stop rocking. “No, John… She never really existed… and she can never stop running now… It’s over.” He goes back to humming.

John’s voice trembles. “So what am I going to do now?”

 _“Now.”_ Sherlock emphasizes the word so John looks up. He steps towards his friend and lowers Elizabeth. John straightens himself, outstretched arms reaching to receive the baby placed carefully in his arms. “Now, _we_ are going to put Ms. Elizabeth Watson to sleep,” Sherlock says matterfactly.

He strides into the kitchen and returns with a warm bottle that he hands to John. The new father holds it there a moment, looking up at Sherlock with a mixture of sadness, gratitude and wonder, then he places the bottle in Elizabeth’s mouth. She eagerly begins suckling, making little humming noises of enjoyment. John smiles and returns his gaze to Sherlock, his features a bit more relaxed.

Sherlock gives John a small, encouraging smile and a wink. He walks to the window, picks up his violin and begins playing a soft, dreamy tune. 

John settles back, listening and staring down at Elizabeth’s face. He can almost believe everything is going to be alright.


End file.
